


Public Escape

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 09:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15861117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Public events were not Noctis' strong suit. He would much rather take the chance of running off with his boyfriend on a dashing escape of the Citadel festivities.





	Public Escape

“No vacation this year?”

It had been a tradition among the Kingsglaives every year. Vacation days were bartered and shuffled, spread out with careful planning at the beginning of the year to snatch up the most wanted days off. There were holidays to observe for some— dates to recognise and spend in their adopted home city, fervently trying to cobble together a fraction of the traditions of cultures long abandoned in the flight from Imperial forces— and traditions for others. Some spent their vacations centred around leaving the protections of the Wall, standing out on the edges of the Lucian territories and just trying to catch a glimpse of distant lights too far away across dark oceans. Others spent their days off in the makeshift heart of their corner of the host city of Insomnia, laughing and cooking and forcing themselves to forget that they weren’t back home; that they weren’t going to step outside to the fresh salt air of the wealthy coastal tourist traps. 

But there was a tradition of trading and shuffling shifts and vacation days to avoid one of the more prominent Lucian holidays. 

The birthday of the Crown Prince was always a show. And not one that welcomed many outsiders. 

It was the sales that started it, that reminded those few Glaives who were knew to the game that they had lost. The face of the prince, posed and aloof, came next— plastered across advertisements and storefronts, newspapers and tabloids alike— overseeing the Glaives who had to trek to their posts in the heart of the city. Gate duty was practically begged for by some as the day drew near. 

Nyx remembered those days. 

Before he realised that the prince tore down just as many advertisements as his comrades did. Before he overheard the prince once in the quiet halls of the Citadel, begging to be released from his duties. Begging for some excuse not to attend the celebrations in his name. 

“Gave it up, your highness.”

The prince had only been a child then. At least Nyx had thought so. He was shy and quiet and spent more time shuffled between caretakers than in the public eye. He was still in the ‘cute’ stages then; the royal attraction paraded and presented to the people. 

Now the prince was a grown man— more or less— still childish and shy, but capable of feigning his role and responsibilities when demanded. He stayed out of the spotlight by virtue of being boring, of skipping the rebellious phases that could have rocked the Citadel to its core. He had grown to be shy and awkward, but still knew when to smile on demand. On command of the royal photographers.

Now the prince knew better than to beg for an escape from the circus of his own birthday. Now he knew that there was no slipping past the limelight and decorations, the weeks’ long re-tellings of his childhood and family. Now, standing before the mirror in his long abandoned Citadel rooms, adjusting his sharp tie in the royal colours, Nyx knew that Noctis would have preferred to walk onto the siege lines rather than through the large doors of the royal ballrooms. 

“Gave it up?”

Nyx saw the surprise in Noctis’ eyes reflected back at him. And he offered a shrug in response, his own uniform just as crisp as the suit the Citadel had put the prince in. It was all sharp edges and hidden decorations, where Noctis was never meant for such harsh subtleties of the throne. 

“Why?” Noctis asked, finally turning to face Nyx properly. As they had plenty of times before. 

Today was the celebration. The public one. The one that came with sales and deals and a day off work for those not scrambling to keep the city running. The one that promised a long weekend for those not stuck cleaning up the mess left in the wake of the Lucian celebrations. 

Today was one of the few days Noctis was on the clock. Every eye in the kingdom would be turned towards him in a manner of hours. The prince would cease to be Noctis for the evening, and step into the role of Crown Prince, just as Nyx felt that he regularly shed his own skin when he stepped into his role of Glaive at the prince’s side. 

“I,” Nyx offered a smirk, reaching out to ruin the crisp edges of Noctis’ perfect suit— to skew the lines and know that he was the cause of some imperfection in the image; “couldn’t let you face that mob alone, could I?”

“I’m not exactly alone.”

“No, no, of course not.” The tie was perfect, a soft silk to heighten the moonlight in Noctis’ eyes. Nyx tugged it loose by a touch, and Noctis smirked up at him. “You have a whole army to keep you company.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be home, hero?” Noctis’s hands slipped up the heavy armour of his uniform jacket. Nyx wished he could feel the familiar heat of that pale skin on his arms. “You hate these things.”

“You hate them too.”

“You should have taken a vacation day.”

“I have one tomorrow.”

“Why?” There was a furrow to Noctis’ brow, a tiny indication of his confusion Nyx touched with his lips. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Your birthday, little star. The real one.”

“Real one?”

Nyx grinned again, bright and confident, even as he forced himself to stand at arms’ length from Noctis. “Tradition! Your real birthday comes after whatever day you’re actually born.”

“Then how is it a birthday?” Noctis let himself be moved back; returned to fiddling with the tie, but doing more to soften the crisp image Nyx had started to ruin than to fix it. 

“Don’t question tradition,” Nyx returned to his post by the door, glancing down the hallway to smile to Ignis making his way over; “Isn’t that right, Scientia?”

“No. Whatever you’re arguing, Ulric, you are in the wrong.” There was a worried, weathered look to Ignis’ reaction, tablet hugged close to his chest as he abandoned the traditional once-over he would give Noctis before shoving him out the door. “Ready, Noct?”

“Does it change things if I say no?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

There was a tradition of Glaives scrambling to take their vacation as the the Lucian kingdom celebrated. For years, Nyx had scrounged and saved his few days for the same— when the toasts to the royal family and the Crown Prince were bitter and sloshed with drinks too weak to be considered part of the celebrations. When he would drag his friends out to the edge of the district to watch the fireworks shatter the night sky, and reminisce about festivities back home. Before he had seen the way Noctis squared his shoulders and straightened his back, and faced the long hallways down to the royal ballrooms and conferences like a veteran facing the slow opening of the Gates beyond the Wall. 

“Wait,” Ignis paused them mid-step at the final turn in the last hallway, the music of the celebration already echoing through the dark stone halls. Gladio peeked around the corner with an expectant look, and Ignis looked his prince over. 

Nyx expected a glare for ruining the crisp lines meant to be presented to the Lucian nobility. He expected a huffy look and the promise of repercussions later for marring the perfect image. “Noct, are you certain?”

At the little nod from the prince that sent Ignis rushing ahead with measured steps, Nyx did not realise that Noct had taken his arm. He barely realised what had happened until he was being pulled forward, Noctis muttering at his side; “Dad said it was okay, hero. We’re making a run for it.”

“You’re going to get me killed, Noct.”

“No, I’m kidnapping you for my birthday present to me.”

From his corner, Gladio offered a thumbs up, and the hush that chased the music down the hallway was met only with Noctis tugging on his arm. An announcement was being made, and they were running in the opposite direction. 

They were out the door before Nyx realised what was happening. The doors closed behind them, and he could already picture the scandals that would hit the morning papers as the prince dragged him out into the shadowed streets of the side entrances. To where Prompto waited with the Star. To where he caught a glimpse of the Marshal opening a security gate meant for the daily deliveries and usually heavily guarded.

“Iggy will tell them I’m sick,” Noctis explained once they had slipped down the streets Nyx didn’t realise the prince knew so well. Once they had left the Star in a quiet lot and Noctis pocketed the keys— phone in hand to text his co-conspirators to pick it up. Once Nyx’s sense of direction caught up with him. “The papers love that sort of thing. Why do they like the idea of me being sick so much? Should I worry?”

“We’re going to my place?” 

Outside of the Wall, Nyx expected this sort of chaos. He expected to be told to move quickly, to blink and be in a different place. He expected the adrenaline, the shock, the sudden need to run. Even when on duty in the strong walls of the towering, shining Citadel, there was the potential for that same chaos. No matter how small. 

He should have expected it from Noctis.

He should have expected a mad dash through the halls and past the confused staff pulled from their neat little scripts. He should have expected some new adventure. 

“They’ll never look for me there.”

“No, I guess not.”

“It’s okay, right? You don’t mind?”

It had never mattered before. The state of the little apartment buried deep in the colourful, noisy district that housed most of the refugees from Galahd— still clinging to their home culture and mother tongue with the hope that they could go home. Noctis had seen the place at its worst; days of neglect and distraction as Nyx was away for his tours of the front lines, everything worth anything now stored safely in the prince’s own apartments, where Nyx let himself be swept away for quiet weeks on end. He had seen the collections of dust and dirty laundry piled into a corner, hastily shoved into a duffel bag to be dragged out later. He had seen the state of Nyx’s haphazard collection of furniture, the pieces and scraps salvaged as people moved house each spring, or salvaged from thrift stores where they had languished for months and years. 

Noctis had seen it all before. 

But that hadn’t been on his birthday. 

“Well, I didn’t exactly clean up.”

“Nyx—”

“Warning would be nice, little king. Your suit is going to be ruined on my floor.”

“Then lets get home and ruin it.”


End file.
